Say Something
by brealeylou
Summary: Sherlock has a very ineffective coping strategy, and John tries to help him get past it. The fic will basically go through a couple major plot points from the show and incorporate Sherlock's self harm. TW for self harm and suicidal thoughts. Also suicide I suppose because I will be referencing The Reichenbach Fall.
1. Chapter 1

THE STORY IS STILL IN PROGRESS AS OF SATURDAY MAY 31, 2014

* * *

chapter 1

Sherlock Holmes is eight years old. He is walking home from his first day at a new school, and some kids follow him. Of course he notices, but he ignores them because he knows what will happen if he gives them the reaction they're hoping for.

"_Hey! Sherlock Homo! Where are you going?"_

He kept walking, hoping they would eventually get bored and leave him alone. Obviously that was never going to happen, but he could still hope.

One of them caught up with him and pushed him down onto the sidewalk.

"_Oi! Listen t'me when I'm talkin' to you!" _The boy grabbed Sherlock by his collar and picked him up. It was pretty easy to do so considering Sherlock was so scrawny.

"_What should we do with him, boys? I say we teach him how to respect his superiors."_

You can guess what happened next.

Sherlock made it home with nothing less than multiple kicks to the stomach, scratches all over his arms and legs, bruises everywhere, a sprained ankle from trying to run but tripping, and a black eye.

Mycroft, who was thirteen at the time, heard him come in through the back door and knew immediately something was wrong. He intercepted his younger brother just before he made it up the stairs. When he saw Sherlock his face fell.

"Oh, Sherlock. What happened?"

Sherlock didn't tell him anything. Instead he lunged forward and wrapped his arms around Mycroft, burying his face in Mycroft's shirt and crying for so long he lost track of time.

* * *

Skip ahead four years.

Sherlock is twelve now, and his grandmother has just passed away. He had always felt closest to her, and they talked about everything. She was always there to help him through the worst of the bullying, as Mycroft was obviously a sociopath and would gladly provide solace for Sherlock through hugs, but didn't provide much advice other than the usual "don't get involved."

Sherlock had made some friends through his science class at school, but they were soon influenced by the students who picked on Sherlock. They quietly drifted away and Sherlock was left with no one.

* * *

Fast-forward two more years.

Sherlock is fourteen. The bullying has increased tenfold by this point, now featuring death threats, slurs, being told to kill himself… You know, the usual.

Mycroft doesn't live at the house anymore. Now he's interning at some low-level government office and living in the city. He rarely comes to visit nowadays.

Sherlock really does have no one to turn to now, and he turns to self harm as a coping strategy.

_What's the big deal? _He thinks. _It's just a few scratches, and it keeps me distracted. Nothing wrong with that, right?_

* * *

Four years.

Sherlock is eighteen. He's started to take after Mycroft, thinking it's probably easier to not let emotions control him. _"Don't get involved, Sherlock." _The voice echoes inside his head from time to time.

He still self harms.

* * *

Nine years this time.

Sherlock is twenty-seven. He's working in cooperation with Scotland Yard now, specifically with Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade. They get along fairly well.

Sally and Anderson, however, are a different story. Their presence definitely causes a significant decrease in Sherlock's mood and confidence.

He still self harms.

* * *

Three years.

Sherlock is thirty years old.

He has just met John Watson.

He still self harms.


	2. Chapter 2

chapter 2

Sherlock and John have been sharing a flat for a few weeks now. They're just getting used to each other right now, still learning their different quirks and mannerisms.

Sherlock has noticed that John wears jumpers quite often—too often, Sherlock thought. John always put an excessive amount of jam on his toast in the mornings, and he always complained when they ran out of milk. He wasn't very good with technology—he typed with only two fingers and could figure out how to use the chip-and-pin machine at Tesco.

John has noticed that Sherlock doesn't seem to have friends. The thought made him a bit sad, but maybe he could be a friend to Sherlock. He has also decided that Sherlock is the smartest person he's ever met, and he wasn't sure whether to be impressed or slightly terrified. The man could deduce you to shreds if he wanted to. John has also learned that Sherlock rarely showed any emotions other than sarcasm and the occasional sass.

John ends up joining Sherlock on a case one day, where he gets a glimpse of how Sally and Anderson treat him.

They examine a body. It's a woman dressed all in pink from head to toe. Sherlock points out various things about her based on tiny details that no one else would have paid any attention to. He deduced that she was a "serial adulteress" from the state of her ring. She had recently arrived from somewhere where it had been raining, which he knew from the umbrella and the dampness of her coat. She had scratched "RACHE" into the floor (Anderson stupidly suggested she meant the German word for revenge, but Sherlock said it was supposed to say "RACHEL."), and the splashes of mud on the backs of her legs led him to believe she had a suitcase with her.

He needed to see it, but Greg insisted there wasn't one.

Sherlock and John gave up and went back to 221B.

_Freak._

"Want to watch something on the telly?" John looked over his shoulder at Sherlock, but Sherlock had already disappeared into his room.

_Freak._

John thought nothing of it. He figured Sherlock was just going to go think about the case.

_Freak._

Sherlock sat down on his bed and pulled his box of razor blades out of the top drawer of his bedside table. He took one out and held it in his hand, just looking at it for a moment before pressing it against his arm.

_Freak._

He slid it across his arm with precision. Just enough to see a few beads of blood form, but not too much that it was messy or painfully obvious to the naked eye.

_Freak._

He repeated the process a few more times, pausing after to watch his arm for a moment. He cleaned his blades and put them away, then went to brush his teeth and clean his arm off.

_Freak._

When he returned to his room, he slid under the covers and looked up at the ceiling until he finally drifted off to sleep.

* * *

Sherlock is sitting across the table from the murderer. He's turned out to be a cab driver.

"So how does it work?"

"I talk. That's it. I talk to them, and they kill themselves."

"But how?"

The cabbie set two bottles, each containing one pill, in front of Sherlock.

"Okay, explain."  
"There's a good bottle and there's a bad bottle. Take the pill from the good bottle, you live. Take the pill from the bad bottle, you die."  
"You know which is which, of course."

"Of course I know."  
"But I don't."

"Wouldn't be a game if you knew. You're the one who chooses."

Sherlock's heart was beating faster.

"Why should I?"

"I haven't told you the best bit yet. Whatever bottle you choose, I'll take the pill from the other one."

Sherlock's heart rate was still increasing.

The cabbie pushed one bottle towards Sherlock.

"Now did I just give you the good bottle or the bad bottle?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. This was hardly a game. He decided to play anyway.

He deduced which bottle was the good one within minutes. He bided his time by talking to the cabbie while actually thinking about the opportunity that had been laid out in front of him.

He could do it. He could do it right now and no one would ever know the real reason behind it. Everyone would simply assume that somehow, _somehow_, the brilliant detective had made a mistake and gotten himself killed.

"Go ahead, Mr. Holmes. Let's take our medicine."

Sherlock opened the bad bottle and dropped the pill into his hand. He held it up.

"I bet you get bored, don't you? You're not bored now, are you?"

Sherlock's hand shook as he brought it to his mouth.

"You'd do anything at all to stop being bored—" _[BANG]_

All of a sudden, a bullet smashed through the window behind Sherlock and lodged itself into the cabbie's chest, piercing his heart.

Sherlock—who of course would never admit it—was in shock as he intimidated the dying cabbie into giving him the name of Sherlock's so-called "fan."

* * *

Outside, with a bright orange shock blanket around his shoulders, Sherlock spotted John standing behind the yellow crime scene tape and quickly figured out that it was he who shot the cabbie. It really was a damn good shot.

Now there were a million thoughts racing through Sherlock's head at top speed.

_Why did he do that?_

_ John Watson is just my flatmate; he doesn't actually care about me._

_ Does he?_

_ No, of course not._

_ It's not like we're friends._

_ I don't have friends._

_ We live together out of necessity._

And so on.

He was interrupted by John saying something to him as they left the crime scene. "You were gonna take that damn pill, weren't you?"

"Course not," Sherlock lied smoothly, hearing a muttered "freak" from Sally as she passed them. He squinted for a second, forcing himself to keep his poker face. "Biding my time. Knew you'd turn up."

"No you didn't," John retorted. "That's how you get your kicks isn't it? You risk your life to prove you're clever."

Sherlock smiled to himself, thinking that they would really have to work on John's deductive skills (or lack thereof).

"And why would I do that?"

"Because you're an idiot," John smiled. Sherlock smiled back.

On impulse, he asks, "Dinner?"

"Starving."

* * *

They go to the Chinese restaurant down the street from 221B and order their food.

Suddenly, John brings up Sally and Anderson. "The way they treat you really is terrible. It's just not right."

Sherlock is a bit taken aback since no one has ever outwardly shared that sentiment with him. He says nothing, however, merely looking down at his hands and furrowing his brow in thought.

John looks at him for a moment with a soft expression, feeling a twinge of pity. He changes the subject and asks Sherlock, "Why the hell do you have an post on your blog dedicated entirely to listing 240 different types of tobacco ash?"

Sherlock smirks and begins telling John all about each type of ash, his mind completely clearing of any negative thoughts.

Sherlock does not self-harm that night.


	3. Chapter 3

chapter 2

John and Sherlock have been living together for about a year now.

Sherlock has gotten into the habit of self-harming a few times a week. Of course, the cuts are more frequent when he doesn't have a case (this distracts him enough to keep him from smoking), and deeper on nights after cases during which Sally and Anderson decided to be ruder than usual. Other than that, he doesn't have a real reason for doing it. Out of habit, maybe.

After a house exploded across the street from 221B, the pair was called to Scotland Yard to discover an envelope addressed to Sherlock, no doubt from his "fan." The envelope was found in a box inside the destroyed house. It contained the pink phone from their first case together. There was a voicemail message waiting for him. They played it and heard only five pips.

"What does it mean?"

"They're warning us it's going to happen again."

A text message popped up. Attached was an image of an empty flat, which Sherlock recognized to be 221C Baker Street.

"Come on."

John, Sherlock, and Greg quickly made their way to the flat, immediately entering 221C. They find a pair of trainers and nothing else. A ring echoes through the room, and Sherlock answers a call on the pink phone. It's a woman. She's locked in a car with an explosive vest strapped to her. Sherlock's fan is threatening to blow her up unless he can solve the case involving the trainers within twelve hours. Of course, he does so, and they are able to save the woman.

During this case, Sherlock met Molly's new boyfriend, Jim. He deduced Jim is gay, and tried to save Molly the emotional embarrassment and distress by telling her to end it. He only succeeded in making her run off crying. He truly didn't mean to hurt her, but John was disappointed in him. This only increased the guilt that was swelling in the pit of his stomach.

The second set of pips is too easy, and Sherlock solves the case quickly. His confidence is on the rise.

The third set is also easy, but once the hostage begins to describe Moriarty's voice a sniper shoots the vest, setting off the bomb. The old woman dies along with eleven more in the building.

Sherlock's heart drops all the way down into the earth's core.

_It's on me._

_ I'm responsible._

_ Twelve innocent people have died and it's my fault_.

His stomach lurched.

Back at 221B while John and Sherlock waited for the next challenge, John confronts Sherlock about his lack of concern for the victims. Sherlock had been doing a brilliant job of hiding his unease so far and he wasn't about to stop now.

"Caring about them won't help save them." That ought to shut him up for a while.

John said nothing else on the subject; still, Sherlock felt a twinge of remorse for further disappointing John.

The fourth set is a bit more difficult now that Sherlock is severely off his game.

The hostage is a child this time and Sherlock began to panic as he paced around the museum hall, trying to prove the lost Vermeer painting was a fake. He looks at John as he tries to calm himself down and regain focus. He manages to solve it and save the child.

Sherlock can always count on John to keep him right.

* * *

Sherlock had been paying very little attention to the case Mycroft had brought him days before. It turned out, though, that the stolen Bruce-Partington plans intersects with the mysterious Moriarty.

Sherlock plans a meeting with Moriarty at the pool, where he unexpectedly finds John instead.

Alarms are going off in Sherlock's brain and lungs and stomach as he tried to keep himself from panicking

_Think, you moron._

_Breathe._

_Don't throw up_

_You can fix this_

_John needs you._

Moriarty appears at the far end of the pool. Jim Moriarty. As in Jim from IT. Molly's Jim.

They exchange words, and Moriarty elects to let them live.

Once he leaves, Sherlock rushes to John and catches him before he falls over, frantically removing the vest from John's torso.

"Now people will definitely talk," John breathed weakly.

"Let them."

John watched Sherlock undoing all the straps and buckles on the vest and caught a glimpse of Sherlock's left wrist as the sleeve got pulled back a bit. He saw some faded scars and a fresh cut.

* * *

Back at 221B, Sherlock tries to make a hasty retreat to his bedroom, but John quickly stops him.

"What happened to your arm?"

He was met with silence as Sherlock attempted to feign ignorance. He turned to go into his room. In a flash John grabbed his arm and twisted it behind Sherlock, pushing him against the wall.

John rolled his sleeve back and exhaled shakily, resting his head on Sherlock's back.

"You could have talked to me."

"You wouldn't have wanted to listen," Sherlock replied in his usual monotone voice.

"I'm your friend, and a doctor. I have professional experience listening to people, especially you."

"This is different." His voice cracked as he said it.

Sherlock jerked his arm out of John's grip and turned around. He was a bit teary-eyed. He cleared his throat.

"John, I need you to pretend this never happened. Business as usual. Yes?"

John closes his eyes and tilts his head down for a moment before raising it again to meet Sherlock's eyes.

"Sure. Fine. Business as usual."

Sherlock nodded as he locked himself in his room, leaving John staring sadly at the wall.


End file.
